


Just Not The Same

by LadyMuzzMuzz



Series: Heaven Sent [8]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Blow Job, F/M, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Slight blood references, Thank you Rev for inspiring me for this, Yes even my porn has angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25645858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMuzzMuzz/pseuds/LadyMuzzMuzz
Summary: Thanks to some obscene looking demonic idol, you've been sent back in time, to meet his younger self.  So he waits for your return, and remembers you....but it's not the same.
Relationships: Dante (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Series: Heaven Sent [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851154
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	Just Not The Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TehRevving](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehRevving/gifts).



> Yeah, took a liiiiiittle break from the AU angst, to write....PORN ANGST. Sorry if that's not what you expect from me, I won't take it personally if you want to skip this. Rest assured, I'm working on the regular ole' angst right now.
> 
> Before reading this, I highly suggest you read TehRevving's wonderful work, [One Chance](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24177388), to understand where this story takes place in. Seriously...read it.

The cheap wood paneled clock blares out the time, _2:30AM._ He should be sleeping, there were jobs to do, a brother to argue with, debts to be paid. But no matter how he tosses and turns, he just can’t fall asleep. The room feels like a furnace. And for once, it’s not because he didn’t pay the utility bill. The heat is emanating within him, burning so hot that he’s surprised that he hasn’t scorched the sheets. Steam sizzles from them, as his sweat boils away. He knows exactly what’s causing this. You. Or rather, his _need_ for you. He needs you mind, body, and soul.

Especially, as he looks at the tent in his boxers, body. He’s had this sensation before, when you’ve been out of town for a week or two, and he’s recognized what it is, his inner demon craving you. Usually it could be sated, if not fully satisfied by good ole’ phone sex, face time, and when the reception was spotty, texting.

But not this time. It’s not because you’re out of range, in the middle of the ocean, or on the moon, although to him, you might as well be. At least that was much more believable. 

His mind went back to the last mission he went with you, a run of the mill ‘stop the summoning of a demon’ shit. He didn’t know how, or why, but the moment he saw that relic they had been using, he knew that something bad was about to go down. Bad Juju screamed from that stone idol, something thal looked like two demons eating each other out, forming an endless circle, an especially kinky ouroboros. But what could he have done? Saying ‘ _Babe, don’t touch that, it’ll send you to the past where you’ll meet me at my worst.’_? Would you have believed him? Would it have caused some weird ass time paradox?

So, like an idiot, he stood frozen as you grabbed it, and with a **_POP!_ ** you’d vanished, leaving nothing behind but your rapidly fading scent. 

He doesn’t know when you will return, you hadn't explained the ritual, when it would deposit you back, if you even knew at the time, you could be gone for weeks, months….years.

Another wave of heat ripples through him, and he groans as the stitches on his boxers begin to stretch past their breaking point. He needs to do something, ANYTHING, to relieve himself, before he drives himself mad.

He rips the boxers off, then pads to the bathroom. He ignores your copious collection of hair care products, and cranks the shower on to the max, but only the cold dial. If he can’t cool down by fucking you senseless, he’ll cool himself with plain old ice cold water. It’s not the same, but it’s all he can do.

He lets the frigid water douse him, he’s so hot that it takes a few moments for the water to actually soak him, nearly boiling off him as it hits his blistering hot skin. But eventually, it begins to do its job, chilling him, and his erection begins to flag. All he has to do is lose his mind in the icy water, and he’ll be fine.

But then, he sees your bra, hanging up on a hook on the bathroom door, and his mind wanders into dangerous territory, and memories he doesn’t want begin seeping into his thoughts.

_He didn’t know why he stopped at the bar in the first place, let alone this one. When he wanted to get drunk, he preferred his own well stocked bar, much cheaper, and less feeling out of place. But tonight, he had been paid well on the last job, and figured he deserved a drink or two. So he sat there, nursing a rye and coke in the far corner of the bar, watching the patrons as they chatted amongst each other, and others drunkenly dancing on the well worn dance floor. He was beginning to regret ever coming here when he was hit with that scent._

_It wasn’t the same, it was more delicate, with the sweetness of perfume, and the sharpness of alcohol. But the base note, that was unmistakable. He sat there, transfixed, and shakily placed his drink on the bar, before he dropped it. You had just sat down, a few stools away from him wearing your favourite mini-skirt, short enough that if you bent down, he could get a peek of your lingerie, and that shirt, a wine red blouse, buttoned down to reveal your lacy black bra, with a tiny white bow which glowed in the ultraviolet light like a beacon. That, and the scent kept him transfixed, oblivious to everything else, until you turned to him and smiled._

_“Hey there handsome, like what you see?” you said, and he sat there dumbfounded. What could he say? **“I’ve been wanting to see you for over two decades.” “I thought you were a fucking figment of my depressed mind.”** Of course not, so he smiles back and introduces himself._

With these intrusive memories, the chilly water begins to lose its effectiveness, and the steam begins to billow in thicker clouds. And worse, his cock, once slowly easing back to comfortable limpness, reverses course and becomes hard and erect, demanding his attention. His hand slowly migrates down his stomach, and with a stuttering breath grasps his dick, slowly stroking, enjoying the sensation, even if it's not the same.

_He was on the dance-floor with you, and after a little bit of awkward shuffling, he’d gotten into it. The music thumped, the bass vibrated in his chest, almost masking the shuddering of his heart. Right now he wanted, or rather his demon wanted to skip this whole charade, and drag you to the bathroom, or bend you over the pool table and fuck you raw. After all, he had claimed you all those years ago, why wouldn’t you agree to it?_

_He grumbled against his demon, who seemed to be unable to comprehend that this was the first time you had met him. And while he already knew that you were kinky, he couldn’t risk driving one of the most important things in his life away by being so forward on the first night._

_But it was so hard! Both literally and figuratively, as you ground against his torso, the pressure setting off fireworks down throughout his nerves. There was no possible way you couldn’t feel the outline of his growing bulge, and the smile on your lips gave away your appreciation._

He grabs a washcloth, and begins to palm his cock, pushing against the hard flesh to try to recreate the pressure of your body against him, rhythmically in time with the music in his head. He doesn’t remember the lyrics, nor even the melody. Just the pounding bass. His right hand steadies himself against the shower tiles while he slowly thrusts into the cloth, chasing that feeling, frantically trying to cling to that thought of your ass rubbing so hard into him, he can feel the texture of your lingerie.

But it’s not the same. The terricloth is nothing like his leather pants, your skirt. It’s far too rough and he can’t get the pressure right, no matter what he does, he feels his own hand pressing into his cock, not your soft, supple ass. He needs a different memory, one easier to pretend.

_He settles on the moment he gets home with you, the smell of your arousal from having his bike purring between your thighs, the lingering taste of tequila and salt on your lips. He guided you, or rather made out with you, past his desk, up the stairs, down the hall and into his room._

_“Now,” you said as you slowly undid your shirt, button by agonizing button, “Let’s see if my prediction was true, big boy.”_

_He hesitated. Even knowing you all those years ago, it’s hard to shake the fear he was too big, that you’d lied to spare his feelings._

_He needn’t have feared as his boxers came down and his cock sprang up in all its glory. The way your eyes dilated, your lips parted, but most especially, that sudden gush of slick he smelled._

_“No, not a big boy” you whispered as you climbed into bed with him, “a big man.”_

_Tentatively, you placed one small hand around his shaft, your fingers barely able to touch each other, and with surprising gentleness, you began to stroke him, watching his face intently. He was surprised at how soft you were, he had almost forgotten that for you, this was your first time with him. After a minute, you started exploring, cupping his balls with your other hand, and gently squeezing, your thumb pressing, rubbing circles into the pebbled flesh. Your main hand pulled back the skin, a tiny bit at a time, exposing the tip ever so gradually to the rapidly warming bedroom air. Almost on a whim, you slowly thumbed his slit, smearing pre-cum all over his cock, and it took nearly all his demonic willpower to resist the urge to thrust into your hand, and possibly fracturing it._

He’s barely aware of the water now, so focused on trying to replicate the sensation of your first handjob with him. Your uncharacteristic trepidation, the way your fingers splayed around him. He cups his balls with his other hand, rhymically rolling them around in his palm. He clenches his eyes and tries to remember the scent of your arousal threatening to overwhelm him with each agonizing stroke.

It’s just not the same. His hands are far too big, his thick fingers are almost able to interlock as he pulls up and down. And while your hands weren’t completely soft, due to your years of hard living, they’re a hell of a lot softer than the calloused clumsy digits that he feels. His other hand can’t get the angle he needs to pretend it’s yours. And as he pulls the skin back, there’s no pre-cum to smear, or if there is, it’s washed away by the frigid water. He snarls desperately, and clouds of steam billow out in response. His demon needs more. 

_You took him into your mouth, and he watched you slowly, inch by agonizing inch, take more than he remembered you did that first time. But then again, his mind was so blown out by you all those years ago, his memories weren’t all that reliable. You were so warm, so soft, it took everything for him not to snap his hips. He could feel your throat muscles constrict, then relax to allow him passage. Instead of placing his hand on the top of your head to push you down, he compromised by gently dragging his fingers across your throat, marveling at the bulge that was settling there. Deeper you went, until he could feel your nose nestling in his pubic hair, streams of your bubbling saliva dripping down his ballsack. He needed to do something, anything, to tell you how good you were to him, how no one but you had ever taken his cock to the hilt._

_“That’s… that’s fucking amazing, babe” he managed to say, although it barely scratched the surface of what he meant. You seemed to be able to somehow understand the deeper meaning behind it, if your amused hum indicated. That vibration, along with the soft scraping of teeth along the base of his dick was almost enough to send him over the edge. Over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, the sound of slowly ripping cloth confused him. It took a few moments for him to realize it was coming from him, his fingernails ripping holes into the sheets in an effort not to choke you._

Stumbling through the clouds of steam, he finds some of your body cream. It’s your favourite, but you won’t mind if he uses a bit? Besides he’s getting desperate now, and if this is going to fool him that you’re sucking his cock, he’s willing to suffer your wrath ~~if~~ when you return. He squirts a copious amount into his shaking palm, and nearly as much goes straight down the drain. He doesn’t bother to put the bottle back, letting it drop to the bottom of the tub with a loud hollow thud. He smears it along his length, to mask the toughness of his hands, and tries to grip and pull, his fingernails scraping underneath, trying desperately to capture the feeling of your teeth. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, trying to imagine you crouched down beneath him, giving him a blow job he will remember for the rest of his life.

It’s just not the same. Much like his pre-cum, the water quickly washes the lotion away, destroying the illusion of your soft mouth, and revealing his hardened hands. He can’t keep up the same pressure as your throat, the rippling muscles taking him in, and his nails aren’t smooth enough to pretend to be your teeth. 

And worst of all, the memory of that distinct smell of your slick, coming in waves with every compliment he babbled, is obliterated by the cheap and artificial smell of coconuts and strawberries. But he’s close, oh so close, and if he doesn’t do something soon, his demon will surely take control out of sheer frustration.

_You were on top of him, bouncing on his cock, your head thrown back as you rode him. His hands were gently on your hips, and he resisted the urge to grip you tight enough to leave bruises. After all, why push you into something he knew you’d eventually do willingly? Instead, he contented himself to guide your thrusts, to help you when you needed to slow down._

_Your tits bounced in time with your movements, shimmering with sweat in the dim bedroom lights._

_They lure him in like a fish, and driven by primal lust he suddenly sat up and began to suck on them, ignoring your startled yelp as he relished the salty taste of your skin. He closed his eyes and lost himself in your taste, your smell, your moans, the way his cock angled to hit just the right part inside of you_

_He was only yanked, literally out of his bliss, by a sharp tug on the back of his head, letting a small moan of his own escape his throat at the delicious burn on his scalp._

_“You keep this up,” you said between stuttered breaths, your thrusts never slowing down, “I won’t last much longer. Wait…” you paused for the briefest of moments, “You like that sort of thing?” You tugged his hair once more as an example._

_He moaned behind his bitten, bloody lip, “Oh yeah, I like it rough. Scratch me, bite me, do whatever you feel comfortable with, babe.”_

_And so you attacked him, your nails scratching deep into his skin, your teeth threatening his jugular with pressure. And he responded by pulling you close to his chest, and taking over your thrusts, fastster and faster. Everything told him you were close, your moans had turned to breathless whimpers, your heartbeat raced faster than his bike in high gear, and your walls, oh god your walls, so velvety smooth, rippled and clenched around him in a cacophony of spasms._

_And then, with a scream of his name, you came, going completely rigid, allowing him to focus solely on the wet warmth blooming around his cock and drenching his balls in sweetness._

He stands there, breathing heavily, his hand stroking faster and faster. His other hand is reaching over his shoulder, gouging out chunks of his back, staining the water pink. Out of instinct, he bites down on his forearm, relishing in the pain and the salty blood that fills his mouth.

**_It’s not the same_ , _goddammit_!**

He can’t reach the lower part of his back like you can, the part that sets his nerves on fire. And even the bite feels fake, as his brain emotionlessly points out that he did it to himself.

That nothing he does will equal to what you’ve done to him, the addiction you’ve unwittingly cultivated in him for the past twenty years. You always joked that he’d ruined you for any other man, but the truth is, you’d done it to him too. Nothing in a million years will ever replace your laughter, your smile, your eyes, your hands, your mouth, your cunt. He needs you like a fish needs water, a gun needs a bullet. And so he focuses on that one singular memory, as you rode made out your orgasm, twitching from aftershocks on his chest, small whimpers rustling his chest hair.

It’s not the same, but this time, it doesn’t matter, because he comes. Hard. Hot sticky ropes of cum spew out, splattering the floor of the tub, lingering for a few moments as an obscene abstract piece of art, before the water washes them down the drain. Only after the last of it is washed away is he aware that he hasn’t breathed since he came, his one hand is gripping the shower tiles, a spiderweb of hairline fractures branching out from each of his fingertips, coming from a set of five miniature craters. He looks down, his hand still wrapped around his now rapidly flagging cock, apparently satisfied with his actions.

But his mind, it’s not remotely satiated. He still needs you, your comforting presence, your soft words, the gentle way your hands bring him down from his high, anchoring him back into the real world, lulling him to sleep. And without you, his thoughts wander to darker places. What if the ritual didn’t work, or worked too well? What if you were sent into the far future, when he was an old man, no longer attractive to you? What if his reluctance to supply the blood for it affected the way it worked, and his desire for you to stay had sent you back into time, before he was even born? What if whatever fucked up entity responsible for this time travelling shit got pissed off and ripped you into tiny subatomic particles in the time-space continuum? 

_What if…_

He crouches down in the tub, his breath stuttering, steam obscuring his vision, even this low in the room, and strange, the water streaming down his cheeks is warm and salty. The fire of lust has been sated, and now been replaced by something even more unquenchable. The ache of loss is almost overwhelming, and he feels so alone. He’s a simple man. Hungry? He buys a pizza. Tired? He plops a magazine on his face and dozes off. Horny? Until recently, he jerks himself off.

But this want, no, need, this feeling of wanting to be truly, deeply loved? There’s nothing he can do about that. Only you can make him feel whole again, after nearly an entire lifetime of loneliness. He can’t do this by himself. He lost you once, and only the hope of seeing you again kept him going sometimes, but now? With the future being its usual unknowable, unforeseeable state? It’s almost too much to bear.

Memories of your voice filter through his mind, telling him how he needs to persevere, to keep looking forward with optimism and hope that you adore in him, his strength to move forward no matter the obstacles. All those years back, you told him his best days were yet to come, and he had secretly scoffed. But now? He’s got friends...and family. A brash nephew who tolerates, and sometimes even takes part in his antics. And a brother, once thought lost forever, is at his side, rebuilding their relationship one day at a time. Had it not been for your tender words all that time ago, he would have given in to despair before he even got a chance to experience this wonderful part of his life.

No, your voice isn’t the same as the real thing, but it's enough, and his breath steadies as he slowly stands back up, joints popping as he turns off the water. For you, he’ll wait, for you, he’ll endure, for you….he’ll hope. He towels himself off, not that there’s much to dry, most of the water evaporated off his rapidly cooling skin. He grabs one of his shirts you wore just before you two left on your job, breathing in the scent with a smile, and some ratty old, but comfy sweatpants.

By the time he makes himself downstairs to the coolness of the first floor, the only hint that he’s spent any time in the shower is his slightly damp scalp. Physically, he’s feeling much better, and sleepiness is beginning to push its way into his mind, but he can’t risk heading back to bed, where the smell of your arousal is still so strong. He plops down in his chair,the leather creaking as he leans back places his feet up on the desk, opening a drawer to pull out the yellowed drawing of your beautiful face. Tonight, he’ll be sleeping here, and while it’s not the same as his bed, he’ll be able to relax enough to doze off...hell, he might even dream of you.

And so, when the sound of the front door opening sharply, and your voice calling his name, accompanying heavy breathing, like you’re running a marathon, he initially thinks it's just a dream. He blinks his eyes, trying to get the stickiness of sleep out of them, and sees you standing there, your hair frazzled, sweat beading on your forehead, and traces of his blood still on your lips from the…from the... _ritual._

He almost leaps over his desk to hold you, his fingers scratching into his other arm, to assure him that this isn’t some crazy dream, that this… this is _real._

He breathes in your scent, as you murmur something he can’t quite make out.

It’s not the same as before, changed by his younger self claiming you, marking you as his own… 

_But he finds as he holds you tightly… He just doesn’t give a damn._

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I'm a sucker for time loop romances.
> 
> Thank you Tehrevving for such wonderful inspiration, and I hope this lives up to your vision.


End file.
